Wednesday, November 30, 2016

Silence by Shusaku Endo

Yes, and
that on this, the most important night of his whole life, he should be
disturbed by such a vile and discordant noise – this realization suddenly
filled him with rage. He felt that his life was simply being trifled with; and
when the groaning ceased for a moment, he began to beat on the wall. But the
guards, like those who in Gethsemane slept in utter indifference to the torment
of that man, did not get up. Again he began to beat wildly on the wall. Then
there came the noise of the door being opened, and from the distance the sound
of feet hastening rapidly towards the place that he was.

‘Father,
what is wrong? What is wrong?’ It was the interpreter who spoke; and his voice
was that of a cat play with its prey. ‘It’s terrible, terrible! Isn’t it better
for you not to be so stubborn? If you simply say, “I apostatize,” all will be
well. Then you will be able to let your strained mind relax and be at ease.’

‘It’s only
that snoring,’ answered the priest through the darkness.

Suddenly the
interpreter became silent as if in astonishment. ‘You think that is snoring. . .
that is. . . Sawano, did you hear what he said? He
thought that sound was snoring!’

The priest
had not known that Ferreiras standing beside the interpreter. ‘Sawano, tell him
what it is!’

The priest
heard the voice of Ferreira, that voice he had heard every day long ago – it
was low and pitiful. ‘That’s not snoring. That is the moaning of Christians
hanging in the pit’. . .

Inside the cell there came not the
faintest sound. Only the pitch darkness where the priest now lay huddle up and
through which it seemed impossible to penetrate.

‘I was here
just like you.’ Ferreira uttered the words distinctly, separating the syllable
from one another. ‘I was imprisoned here, and that night was darker and colder
than any night in my life.’

The priest leaned his head heavily against the wooden wall and listened vaguely
to the old man’s words. Even without the old man’s saying so, he knew that that
night had been blacker than any before. The problem was not this; the problem
was that he must not be defeated by Ferreira’s temptings – the tempting of
Ferreira who had been shut up in the darkness just like himself and was now
enticing him to follow the same path.

‘I, too,
heard those voices. I heard the groaning of men handing in the pit.’ And even
as Ferreira finished speaking, the voices like snoring, now high, now low, were
carried to their ears. But now the priest was aware of the truth. I was not
snoring. It was the gasping and groaning of helpless men hanging in the pit.

While he had
been squatting here in the darkness, someone had been groaning, as the blood
dripped from his nose and mouth. He had not even adverted to this, he had
uttered no prayer; he had laughed. The very thought bewildered him completely.
He had thought the sound of that voice ludicrous, and he had laughed aloud. He
had believed in his pride that he alone in this night was sharing in the
suffering of that man [Jesus]. But here just beside him were people who were
sharing in that suffering much more than he. Why this craziness, murmured a
voice not his own. And you call yourself a priest! A priest who takes upon
himself the sufferings of others! ‘Lord, until this moment have you been mocking
me?, he cried aloud.

“I know!’
The priest, carried away by anger, shouted lauder than ever before. ‘Keep
quiet!’ he said. “You have no right to speak to me like this.’

‘I have no right? That is certain. I have no right. Listening to those groans
all night I was no longer able to give praise to the Lord. I did not apostatize
because I was suspended in the pit. For three days, I who stand before you was
hung in a pit of foul excrement, but I did not say a single word that might
betray my God.’ Ferreira raised a voice that was like a growl as he shouted: ‘The
reason I apostatized . . .are you ready? Listen! I was out in here and heard
the voices of those people for who God did nothing. God did not do a single thing.
I prayed with all my strength; but God did nothing.’

‘Be quiet!’

‘Alright.
Pray! But those Christians are partaking of a terrible suffering such as you
cannot even understand. From yesterday – in the future –now at this very
moment. Why must they suffer like this? And while this goes on, you do nothing
for them. And God, he does nothing either.’

The priest
shook his head wildly, putting both fingers into his ears. But the voice of
Ferreira together with the groaning of the Christians broke mercilessly in
Stop! Stop! Lord, it is now that you should break the silence. You must not remain
silent. Prove that you are justice, that you are goodness, that you are love.
You must say something to show the world that you are the august one.

A great shadow passed over his soul like that of the great wings of a bird
flying over the mast of a ship. The wings of the bird now brought to his mind
the memory of the various ways in which the Christians had died. At that time,
to, God had been silent. When the misty rain floated over the sea, he was
silent. When the one-eyed man had been killed beneath the blazing rays of the
sun, he had said nothing. But at that time the Priest had been able to stand it; or,
rather than stand it, he had been able to thrust the terrible doubt far from
the threshold of his mind. But no it was different. Why is God continually
silent while those groaning voices go on?

‘Now they
are in that courtyard’ (it was the sorrowful voice of Ferreira that whispered
to him.) ‘There unfortunate Christians are hanging. They have been hanging
there since you came here.’

The old man was
telling no lie. As he strained his ears the groaning that had seemed to be that
of a single voice suddenly revealed itself as a double one- groaning was high
(it never became low): the high voice and the low voice were mingled with one another,
coming from different persons.

‘When I
spent that night here five people were suspended in the pit. Five voices were
carried to my ears on the wind. The official said: “If you apostatize, those
people will immediately be taken out of the pit, their bonds will be loosed,
and we will put medicine on their wounds.” I answered: “why do not these people
not apostatize?” And the official laughs as he answered me: “They have already
apostatized many times. But as long as you don’t apostatize these peasants cannot
be saved.”’

‘And you
. .
.’ The priest spoke through his tears. ‘You should have prayed . . . .’

‘I did pray.
I kept on praying. But prayer did nothing to alleviate their suffering. Behind
their ears a small incision was made; the blood drips slowly through the
incision and through the nose and mouth. I know it well, because I experienced
the same suffering in my own body. Prayer does nothing to alleviate suffering.’

The priest remembered how at Saishoji when he first met Ferreira he had noticed
a scar like a burn on his temples. He remembered the brown color of the wound
and now the whole scene rose p behind huis eyelids. To chase away the
imagination he kept banging his head against the wall. ‘In return for these
earthly sufferings, those people will receive a reward of eternal joy,’ he
said.

’ My weakness? The priest shook his head; yet he had no self-confidence. ‘What
do you mean? It’s because I believe in the salvation of these people . . .?’

‘You make
yourself more important than them. You are preoccupied with your own salvation.
If you say that you will apostatize, those people will be taken out of the pit.
They will be saved from suffering. And you refused to do so. It’s because you
dread to be the dregs of the Church, like me.’ Until now Ferreira’s words out
as a single breath of anger, but now his voice gradually weakened as he aid: “Yet
I am the same as you. On that cold, black night I, too, was as you are now. And
yet is your way of acting love? A priest out to live in imitation of Christ. If
Christ were here . . .’

For a moment Ferreira remained silent; then he suddenly broke out in a strong
voice: ‘Certainly Christ would have apostatized for them.’

Night gradually gave place to dawn. The cell that until now had been no more
than a lump of black darkness began to glimmer in a tiny flicker of whitish
light.

‘Christ
would have certainly have apostatized to help men.’

‘No, no!’ said the priest, covering his face with his hands and wrenching his
voice through his fingers. ‘No, no!”

‘ For love Christ
would have apostatized. Even if it meant giving up everything he had.’

‘Stop
tormenting me! Go away, away’ shouted the priest wildly. But now the bolt was
shot and the door opened – and the white light of morning flooded into the room.

‘You are now
going to perform the most painful act of love that has ever been performed,’
said Ferreira, taking the priest gently by the shoulder.

Swaying as
he walked, the priest dragged his feet along the corridor. Step by step he made
his way forward, as if his legs were bound by heavy leaden chains – and Ferreira
guided him along. In the gentler light of the morning, the corridor seemed
endless; but there at the end stood the interpreter and two guards, looking
just like three black dolls. . .